I thought I'd find her dead on the ground next to Sara Ray. Dr. Macy was talking about something while driving; I wasn't listening. I was more worried about the crime scene that we were rapidly approaching. What bothered me most was that I couldn't remember the last thing I said to Jordan. I knew it probably wasn't what I wanted to say to Jordan . . . if it had to be the last thing I said to her.
Our relationship was still a struggle. I wasn't sure if it ever would be as strong as it once was. Our interactions were awkward at best only because we pretended that everything was okay. I wanted everything to be okay. I wanted her to be my friend; I wanted to be able to talk to her like I used to. I wondered if Dr. Macy and I were going to be too late.
The FBI agent's partner had a slug in his head. There was nothing done to hide it. It was as if he really didn't care about who got in his way. Jordan had a mouth on her; she wasn't always that good at controlling her mouth. I prayed that this time Jordan would use her head.
The entire scene took seconds, but I was holding my breath so it felt like it took hours. I didn't see her when I walked in. I didn't see her body on the ground. I hoped that she got out. When I called out for Jordan, I hoped that the hitch in my voice wasn't audible. I heard it; for a second, I imagined finding Jordan dead in the dank, little dinner. I managed to keep the emotion at bay. There would be time for that later once I knew that she was or was not okay.
She gingerly stood up from behind the counter. She was okay physically, but if she was hurt emotionally, she wouldn't tell a soul. Jordan used to tell me those things. She used to tell me when she wasn't okay. Jordan used to be honest with me. She wasn't dishonest anymore; she just didn't tell me anything about her life. Our conversations lived in the domain of only the superficial.
Jordan went to Dr. Macy first. I watched him hold her while I handcuffed and began to process the agent. I was listening to what he said to Jordan; I used to be the one that told her how lucky she was. I used to be the one that Jordan would turn to for comfort. I didn't dare turn around to see the way they looked at each other. It always made me jealous that Jordan didn't look at me like that anymore.
I went to the Pogue that night hoping that she might be sitting on her favorite barstool talking to one of the bartenders. I went there and waited. One of the barmaids, Wendy, told me Jordan had called. She was going to go straight home. Wendy said Jordan sounded tired . . . maybe a little shaken. Wendy had heard bits and pieces of my tumultuous relationship with Jordan; apparently, Max was a talker when he was inebriated. Wendy told me to go to her. The idea had already crossed my mind by the time the words escaped Wendy's mouth.
I stood in front of her door thinking about all the times that I've come here only to leave before I tell Jordan that I'm sorry . . . that I miss her. I knew an apology was needed; there were so many things that I needed to apologize for. There were so many things that I needed to say to her. I thought that tonight all those apologies and all those words could have easily been too late.
I knocked on her door. I waited. She opened the door and waited for me to say something. She smiled a weak smile. Jordan looked like she might have been crying. She looked like she might not be okay. All I could do is pull her into my arms. I kissed the top of her head before I began to struggle to maintain my composure. I held her a little closer to remind myself that she was not dead . . . that I had made it on time.
Jordan asked me to come inside her apartment. She said that she had time for us to talk; she said it was time for us to talk. I knew we were both lucky to have time. It could have easily been different.